


The Show Starts Now

by CrazyPrepared (writerofberk)



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bridget is the true mvp as usual, F/M, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, One-sided pining, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide mention, Swearing, eventual Branch/Poppy but whoo boy the burn is slow, everyone uses the f word way too much, i cannot be stopped, just pining all around, pry theater kid aus out of my cold fucking fingers, theater kid AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofberk/pseuds/CrazyPrepared
Summary: Branch rounded the counter and slipped past her to nudge open the bedroom door, thanking whatever higher power that had granted him the foresight to put her invitations back in his closet before answering the door. "Come on. I'd better take you home before your friends think I've kidnapped you.""Our friends.""Your friends.""Our friends. Don't fight it."





	1. Chapter 1

Un-fucking-believable.

They were already starting.

Even out here, with the scuffed, scratched wooden door standing shut between them, Branch caught the strain, a dozen hyper-enthused, sugar-fueled voices mixing and merging in yet another one of their absurdly over-the-top jingles composed specifically, he was sure, to try his razor-thin patience to its absolute limits.  
He really should just fucking quit. Not like Cybil couldn’t go and find herself another dead-eyed, subhuman high school senior to run a paintbrush across a piece of cardboard several thousand times in an hour and call it a backdrop. Not like anyone would even notice if he was gone.  
Actually, Branch had to concede that they probably _would_ , if only to gratefully note the perfect absence of the bitter asshole skulking around in the shadows, ready to leap out and deliver a string of caustic, biting comments every time they dared let their spirits rise so much as a fraction.

He hitched his backpack higher up on his shoulder, pushed open the door, and ducked, unseen, into the room. Just as he’d predicted, the place was in complete chaos. Either he was a motherfucking psychic, or these guys were just painfully predictable in their unpredictability.

From the looks of things, everybody was going everywhere – or at least they were trying their damndest – and singing like they thought they were in some sort of low-budget The Sound of Music spin-off.  
In the center of it all, like an impassable rock amidst a rushing stream, stood Poppy, her brush dripping jade-green paint, wide, radiant smile setting the room aglow, bubblegum-pink plait bobbing behind her as she bounced on her toes, voice carrying easily to every corner of the room, high and clear and sweet. “Everybody, shake your hair, and feel united, ohhh!” She spun in a circle, arms thrown wide, and head tipped back, exposing the curve of her neck and the smooth angle of her chin.

Satin and Chenille came sprinting suddenly through the tumult in a cloud of strong-smelling makeup and a swirl of glittery fabric, followed closely by Suki, her frizzy, unnaturally orange hair spilling from its messy bun and tumbling down around her shoulders; at the far end of the room, Guy Diamond moved easily between third and fourth position, the motions merely a matter of course to one who’d spent the last twelve years studying dance; Cooper and Smidge passed a steaming Styrofoam cup back and forth between them, chatting to Biggie between sips – and somehow, not one of them missed a single word of that goddamn song.

_“Everybody’s singing! Sunshine day!”_

They all looked like complete idiots.

_“Everybody, move your hair and feel united! Ohhh!”_

And they all looked so happy.

_“Ohh, yeah!”_

Poppy clasped her hands to her chest on the last word, eyes squeezed shut and head tossed back, goofy, exaggerated grin still stretching her lips; several flyaway strands of bubblegum-pink hair had somehow escaped that ridiculous homemade flower crown she always insisted on wearing – because you’re just jealous you don’t have a fabulous floral headband, Branch, oh, my god, I’ll totally make one for you, Branch, oh my god, what’s your opinion on daffodils – and now fluttered and flitted about her face, or clung to her forehead, round rosy cheeks flushed in excitement and exertion, and she looked so outrageous and beautiful and so utterly Poppy that Branch had to look away, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips.  
He wanted to be annoyed with her. He really, really wanted to be annoyed with her. This was just unfair.

“Branch!”

_Shit._

He looked up, drawing in a breath he knew would vanish the minute he laid eyes on her again. “Unbelievable, guys.” Nope, not nearly asshole enough. “Really, really great. Good job.” Not that it matters. None of these guys would know sarcasm if it bit them on the ass. “I could hear you from a mile away!”

“Good!” Poppy chirped; she dropped her hands back to her sides and rushed over to him, a familiar sparkle in her eye, blinding smile still fixed on her face. “I was worried we weren’t projecting enough!”

Branch scowled – stupid Poppy with her stupid pretty smile making his stupid head spin and his stupid heart jump inside him – and took a step closer, folding his arms across his chest. “Poppy, if I can hear you, so can everyone else!”

Guy Diamond, who stood frozen in first position, relaxed his stiff stance, and rolled his eyes. “Oh, boy.”

“Here we go again,” Cooper said resignedly, handing the Styrofoam cup off to Smidge, and readjusting his hat.

“Oh, Branch,” Biggie sighed.

“He always ruins everything,” Satin murmured to her sister, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear; Chenille bobbed her head in vigorous agreement.

Did they really think he couldn’t fucking _hear_ them? Branch ground his teeth together. “Look, I’m not taking any heat from Cybil when she finds out you guys haven’t been doing your fucking job back here!”

“We _have_ been doing our _fucking job_!” Chenille whipped round, eyes flashing. “Just because we aren’t all as miserable as you, doesn’t mean we aren’t working!”  
“Okay, fine!” Branch stormed past Poppy, pausing to snatch up his paintbrush. “You guys want to waste all your time back here singing? Be my guest!” He threw himself down in front of the half-finished backdrop – the stupid, cheery forest scene seemed to taunt him.  
Why the fuck did he even do this again?

Oh, right. University. Gotta have those extracurriculars if he wanted to even get within sniffing distance of Hailville. Not like these guys planned on staying comfortably cooped up back here in Troll Town, with its five-hundred-and-fifteen population where everybody knew everybody, but at least they’d be easier to avoid up at a school as big as Hailville. Of course, this was operating under the assumption that he even got in at all—God knew the place only had a one in three hundred acceptance rate…some days, Branch couldn’t believe he dared set his sights so high.

Well, at least they were being quiet now.

“Oh! Branch!”

Aaaaaand he spoke too soon. Wonderful.

“Soo,” Poppy bounced over to him, and dropped to her knees beside him, “I’m havin’ a party tonight, and I—

“No.” Branch didn’t look at her – it was always an effort to stop.

“You haven’t even let me ask you yet!” Poppy protested.

“Right, because you’re going to give me one of those—those monstrosities covered top to bottom in glitter,” Branch put a final touch of dark green on one tree before moving onto the next, “which is going to get all over everything, by the way, you should really consider something that won’t cling to wet paint, and I’m going to say no, anyway, so really, I’m just saving everyone time.” He paused give his brush another meager dousing of dark green. “You should be thanking me.”

“At least let me give you your invitation!” Poppy protested; the sound of rustling paper caught his attention, and when he glanced over, she smiled hopefully and held out a sunny yellow card, little pop-up rainbow springing forward on its tiny silver coil, a touch of vibrantly colored glitter shimmering brightly here and there in the corners.  
Branch studied the card for several silent moments – lovingly and flawlessly crafted, just like all the ones before it; the little rainbow was a nice touch, he admitted grudgingly, and at least this one kept the glitter to a reasonable minimum. He wouldn’t be plucking the glimmering flecks out of a still-drying, slightly sticky backdrop for ages to come, so the thing had that going for it, if nothing else.

“It’s gonna be our biggest, loudest, craziest party ever!” Poppy enthused. “C’mon, what d’you say, Branch?”

She was so fucking adorable. It was fucking unfair. Branch scowled, more at this train of thought than at her. “Big? Loud? Crazy? Sounds like hearing damage, alcohol poisoning, and all in all, a whole lot of no thanks.” He lifted his paintbrush again and turned deliberately away from her.

But Poppy didn’t give in, expectant grin still perfectly in place. “I forgot to mention dancing! There’ll be dancing there, too!”

“Terrific,” Branch said dryly – and a bit tiredly, truth be told. When the fuck was she going to get the hint, and leave him alone? She’d known him almost eight years by this point – plenty of time for her to wise up and realize he was nothing but a jaded asshole. Jesus, he really needed to up his game. “Be sure to check for potential tripping hazards,” he added, because the last thing these idiots needed was to break their stupid ankles. “Establish a perimeter, and an open path for non-dancing people to pass.” Because he’d be damned if these stupid fucks wound up in the hospital just because they didn’t know how to plan anything. “And make sure you have enough liquid in the area for hydration.”

“Can you try to stop taking all the fun out of everything?” Poppy huffed. "Just once! You might like it!”

“How about you try to take things more seriously?” Branch shot her a snarky smile, but there was a small twist in his chest as he spoke the words – one day, she really was going to get herself mixed up in something even she couldn’t smile or party or hope her way out of, and when that day came, he would—he would…okay, fine, he would help her. But not until he’d gotten to say I told you so several dozen times.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy, Branch! Easy!”

Branch’s smile slipped off his face like water, and he narrowed his eyes – when the hell did this fucker get here?

Creek breezed on up to them like he fucking owned the place, door still swinging slightly, fucking smug smile fixed on his fucking smug face. “Okay, first of all, mate,” he went to his knees right next to Poppy – he left only an inch between them, if that, Jesus Christ, had the shitrag never heard of personal space? – and gave what, Branch supposed, could be described as a halfway pleasant smile, if the person doing the describing happened to be a huge fucking idiot. “Thanks for sharing your unique perspective on things,” Creek chuckled lightly, “ _again_.”

Over at the far end of the room, Cooper and Biggie clapped their hands to their mouths, muffling their snickers a second too late, and Branch flushed to the tips of his ears. Fucking idiots acting like he couldn’t fucking hear them. Fucking assholes, each and every one of them.

“But just for now,” Creek continued, leaning forward a little – and whoakay, apparently the shitrag really had never heard of personal space, because this was _too fucking close_. “Why don’t you try on some positivity, eh? A little positivity might go with that jacket!” He tugged pointedly at the ripped green jacket hanging round the other’s shoulders.

Branch smacked his hand away. “Okay, fine. I’m positive I want all of you to leave me alone. I wouldn’t be caught dead at your parties.” He turned back to the scenery, a savage sense of triumph burning in his chest at the silence that pervaded in the wake of his words.

Finally they’d leave him the fuck alone. Just like he’d always wanted.  
“Tune out his negative vibrations, Poppy,” Creek murmured – like he couldn’t fucking hear them. “They’re toxic.” Like he wasn’t even fucking there. “Some folks just don’t want to be happy.” And some folks are smug-ass sons of bitches, but hey, we all have our vices, don’t we, Creek?

“I guess.” Uncertainty laced her voice, and it was enough for Branch to drag his gaze from the backdrop – not like he was getting very far on it right now, anyway – and up to her.  
Creek flashed her another one of his stupid, smarmy smiles. “You guessed right.” He lifted his hand and touched his finger lightly to the tip of her small nose. “Boop!”

Poppy laughed.

And that was fine, Branch told himself as he turned back to his work. That was fine. It was fine because it wasn’t like he cared what Creek did with Poppy or what Poppy did with Creek or what Poppy did with anybody, it wasn’t like he had any right to care because it wasn’t like he was in love with Poppy or anything, it wasn’t like he’d been in love with her almost eight goddamn years now, it wasn’t like she did stupid cute things or smiled stupid cute smiles or made stupid cute invitations or sang stupid cute songs that made his heart forget how to beat or anything like that, it wasn’t like he was _fucking in love with fucking Poppy._

Except that when no one was looking, and Cooper and Smidge and Biggie had picked their conversation back up and waved Poppy and Creek over to their side of the room, and Guy Diamond had moved into second position, Branch reached out and snatched up the sunny yellow card, lying forgotten on the floor, and stuffed it down inside his jacket.  
Another one to add to the pile.

If he kept this up, pretty soon it would be the last.

Finally she’d leave him the fuck alone.

His stomach dropped at the thought.

Just like he’d always wanted.

* * *

All things considered, The Troll Tree was a pretty shitty place to work.

The lousy, rundown restaurant was doing its damndest to masquerade as a diner, or at least something close to it, calling itself things like “cute” or “quaint” or “old-fashioned”, so everybody could keep pretending it shouldn’t have died a quiet, peaceful, dignified death back in the 1950s.  
Chef ruled the place with an iron fist, tall and imposing and about as old as the diner itself; her small, dark eyes darted constantly to and fro, always on alert for the next unlucky employee upon which to unleash her inexhaustible roll of vitriolic remarks, mood and manner always unfailingly foul. Hell, she’d spent ten minutes yesterday hollering at Branch because she couldn’t see her reflection in the plate he was scrubbing.

The pay was absolutely rotten, customers complained constantly that he didn’t “smile enough” – as if there was some sort of quota he had to fill! – and, worst of all, a jukebox blared constantly at one end of the diner, blasting everything from seventies rock to Justin Timberlake’s newest single.  
Branch suppressed a groan as the – now woefully familiar – bars of Can’t Stop the Feeling started in again, for the third time this week.  
Who the fuck kept playing this song?

Probably Bridget. She did love to fuck with him.

Or she would if she was _here_.

Probably for the best that she wasn’t, though, Branch conceded, grabbing up another dirty plate and raking his dishcloth roughly along the pale ceramic surface. She was terrified of Chef even on a good day. And – Branch rubbed the tip of his ear where the wooden spoon had struck him – today was definitely not a good day.

Yeah. Probably for the best Bridget wasn’t here yet.

Though she’d be even worse off if she didn’t show up soon…her shift had begun well over an hour ago, and Branch could only cover for her so long…  
The door flew open, and a screaming, spinning whirl of pastel pink came shooting through.

Speak of the devil…

“Why didn’t you tell me?! Why didn’t you tell me?! You are the literal worst! Branch, you are the literal worst!”

“Says the one who played _Summer Love_ on repeat for an entire week after you found out I didn’t like it,” Branch mumbled.

“Fair point, but,” Bridget refused to be derailed, “why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me I’d gotten a callback? Branch, you are the literal worst!”

Branch stuck the plate under the spray of rushing water. “Yes, I’m sorry for neglecting to mention something even I didn’t know until literally yesterday.”

Bridget paused.

“Anyway,” Branch stacked the plate next to its fellows on the counter, “you’re gonna talk my ear off no matter what I say, so I’ll go ahead and bite – how did it go?”

Bridget beamed at him. “Okay, okay, so I think Cybil actually really, really liked me? I don’t know, I mean, I could have been wrong – I probably was wrong, but she seemed like she—but I don’t—oh my god! Oh my god, Branch, I’m—I’m so, so sorry.” Her gaze skittered guiltily over the stack of greasy dishes piled high on the counter, then to the dishrag in his hand. “Oh, my god, I’m—I’m so sorry, I’m late again, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine.”

“It was just—I was so excited, and then Poppy was so excited—and you know how Poppy gets when she’s excited—

“I know,” Branch said stonily. “Bridget, it’s fine.”

“—but—but that’s no excuse, you shouldn’t have to be here, your shift’s already ended, hasn’t it? Oh, Branch, I’m so sorry—

“Bridget!” The thin, fraying thread the last of his patience had spent the morning precariously hinged upon suddenly snapped. “It’s fucking fine! I’m getting paid for overtime, I really can’t complain! Not like I have anywhere else to be!” Why couldn’t she just go back to talking about her fucking audition?

“But—but didn’t you have plans to—?” Bridget dropped her voice and ducked her head, stealing glances at him from underneath her thick brown hair, “—to go see your grandma?”

What he wouldn’t fucking give to ram the plate he held into the counter just to hear it _smash_ …he tightened his fingers reflexively around the rim of the dish. “Fuck off, Bridget.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, nervously wringing her hands, “I didn’t mean to—

“Chef will kill you if she knows you’re not working.” Yeah, okay, change the subject. Changing the subject is good. Changing the subject. Be even better if the subject had never fucking come up in the first place, but this works. Change the subject, just change the fucking subject. “You’d better get out there before she catches you.”

“I…” Bridget crossed the kitchen and drew the silver tray up off its designated counter, but hesitated just before leaving, one hand pressed flat against the door. “I’m sorry, Branch.”

_Oh, great. Now you’ve got her apologizing to you. You happy with yourself, you fucking asshole?_

A soft sigh, and then the quiet creak of old wood as she slipped out the door, and into the diner.

_Apparently you are._

He should—he should probably say he was sorry. That would be the decent thing to do. Not that he knew fuck-all about the decent thing to do, considering he’d never done a single decent thing in his life, or anything like that…  
So, yeah, he should probably say he was sorry.

Or you could just keep on being a heartless dick until she gets tired of you, and devote the rest of your natural life to scaring away everyone who so much as looks at you, and wallowing in self-pity. Wouldn’t be that different from what you’re doing already.

Okay, Option B definitely had its merits—

“Br-Branch?”

_Fuck._

“I’ll handle it.” He added the plate in his hands to the top of the stack on the counter, and yanked up the nearest dishtowel to wipe his hands dry before he approached her. “What table?”

“Th-the one in the corner,” Bridget kept her eyes on the ground even as she surrendered the tray to him, voice low and tremulous. “By the window.”

“All right. I’ll take care of it.” Branch plucked the slip of faded yellow notepaper from her fingers before pointing her in the direction of the sink. “Just take over for me back here, yeah?” He ran his eyes down the slightly crinkled paper, reaching automatically for a few mugs to fill. “How many were there?”

“Three.”

Branch’s fingers tightened around the mug. Fucking lowlifes. “Okay.” It was a struggle to keep his voice even. “Chef shouldn’t come in here – she’s been out there dealing with that customer for about twenty minutes now, and I don’t think she’s getting away anytime soon. Just keep your head down if she does.” He topped up the last mug, and stole a quick glance at Bridget, every reassuring and comforting and nice thing he could think to say hovering on the tip of his tongue. He closed his mouth and turned away.

She was fine. She’d be fine.

He pushed open the door, and stepped out into the diner.

Branch spotted them almost immediately – they were in the corner, as Bridget had said, by the window, three rowdy, broad-shouldered men in their mid-twenties, all dressed in slightly varying shades of dark green plaid.  
Anger flared, fiery hot and fierce in the pit of his stomach. Fucking assholes. He’d tell them to leave if Chef wouldn’t kill him and serve his decaying corpse as tomorrow’s special for losing her business.  
So he firmed his mouth and made his way over to them, setting the mugs down, hard, on the table by way of greeting – not hard enough to send them whining to Chef about bad service, because he much preferred his head on his shoulders, thank you very much.

“Where’d the other one go?” The shortest and stockiest of the three was the one to ask, craning his thick neck slightly to glare up at Branch. “That pretty little thing that was just out here?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Branch smoothed the crumpled notepaper flat atop the tray. “I’m your server now. What do you want?” Okay, so pretty little thing definitely wasn’t the worst thing Bridget had been called, but if these guys thought they deserved courtesy for not being as perverted as they could have been…

“The better-looking one back,” one of the other men mumbled, as though half-hoping he wouldn’t be heard.

_Make another wish, asshole._

“I’m pretty sure I said _I’m_ your server now,” Branch said coldly, fingers tightening marginally around the tray. “And if you don’t place an order, I’ll have to go to another table.”  
The men started opening their menus.

Branch hadn’t really expected anything different – vulgar and leering as some of the guys who came through here could be, most of them weren’t looking for anything beyond a quick and subtle grope, and very few seemed willing to actually fight for it – but even so, a bit of the tension left his body, trickling away like water.

When he slipped back into the kitchen with the men’s orders scrawled untidily upon the notepaper, Bridget shot him a small, nervous smile. “Thanks, Branch.”

_Christ, now she’s thanking you for showing the tiniest shred of decency._

“Don’t mention it.”


	2. Chapter 2

One hundred thirty-seven.

Once, out of sheer boredom, genuine curiosity, or most likely just some twisted sense of out-and-out masochism, Branch had dragged this same battered, beat-up old cardboard box out from the back of his closet, thrown himself down on the floor in front of it and, one by one by one, counted every card inside. The end of the night found him on his knees in stunned disbelief, fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles ached, numbly repeating the words _one hundred thirty-seven, one hundred thirty-seven_ through near-frozen lips.

One hundred thirty-seven cards. One hundred thirty-seven colorful, noisy, gaudy, glittery cards crafted just for him, one hundred thirty-seven cards she’d given him now, one hundred thirty-seven parties she’d tried to get him to attend, and one hundred thirty-seven times he’d shot her down. One hundred thirty-seven times he’d told her no. One hundred thirty-seven times she’d tried anyway. One hundred thirty-seven times he’d been as rotten and mean and hateful as possible, and one hundred thirty-seven times she’d never stopped trying to make him feel accepted and included and wanted. One hundred thirty-seven times, and Branch hoped to hell and back that today had been the last.

He ran his fingers lightly over the crinkled yellow paper, exploring the little dark creases here and there, the fuzzy, flashy felt letters, the rainbow springing exuberantly forward on its tight coil every few seconds, committing the tiniest details to memory, learning every inch by heart. One hundred thirty-seven cards, and he prayed to any god that would listen that he never got another one.

His heart turned to stone inside him at the thought – one day, it really would be the last. One day, Poppy was going to give up on him. One day, she was going to realize he was just a jaded, pathetic asshole stuck in an endless downward spiral toward nothing but rock fucking bottom, and she was going to get out before he could drag her down with him. She was going to get out before he ruined her. And everything would stop.

The silly pop-up cards that sang and flashed and popped and shrieked, or sprayed glitter when he opened them up, they were going to stop; and the hopeful smile she wore every time she gave him one, that was going to stop, too; and the way she said “Come on, Branch, sing with us!” and the way she hugged him out of nowhere sometimes for no reason, and the way she found unicorns and butterflies in the clouds if she only tilted her head a certain way and squinted at them long enough, and the way she’d look at him in disbelief when he said _it just looks like a cloud, Poppy, you’re so ridiculous_ , and the stupid cute way she wrinkled her nose at him when he’d said something particularly snarky, it was going to stop, it was all going to stop.

And—and that was a good thing. That was a good thing, a really, really good thing, his feelings be damned.

She was going to get out before he ruined her, and he clung to that reassurance like a lifeline.

And, maybe one day, his heart would finally quit jumping inside his chest every time they locked eyes; maybe one day, he’d be able to look at her without completely forgetting how to breathe; maybe one day, he could finally stop all this ridiculous moping and mooning over her cards, like some sort of doe-eyed moron, maybe one day he’d finally stop filling page after page with verses about her eyes, and her smile, and her hair and her voice and her stories and her enthusiasm and her optimism and imagination and stupid adorable sayings and—

Fuck.

He was _never_ not going to love Poppy.

A sudden, hard rap on the door jerked him sharply from his ridiculous haze of quite frankly stale self-pity – he’d been over this a million times before; Poppy was going to get tired of him at some point, that was a given, so why couldn’t he quit whining and just get the fuck over it? – and he shot immediately to his feet, card clutched, forgotten, in one fist, the little pop-up rainbow still bobbing erratically back and forth on its coil.

Which of his shitty, noisy neighbors wanted something from him now? And come to think of it, what in Christ’s name were they doing at two in the fucking morning?

He raked a tired hand roughly through his dark, unkempt hair and let himself drop, in a graceless heap, back down to the floor; he was in mood to interrupt his pity party – because _yes_ , he was self-aware enough to admit that that was what this was. Whoever was out there would give up eventually.

“Branch! Branch! Branch!”

He froze. What the fuck was _she_ doing here?

“Branch!” Every holler was accompanied by a sharp, persistent pound of her fist upon the flimsy, creaking door – if he didn’t answer in the next five seconds, he had no doubt she’d find the means to bust her way in.

He drew himself up with a long, low sigh, and the paper in his fingers crinkled loudly.

“Branch, are you in there?!”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, he had her—her fucking cards spread out like—Christ, he was still holding one in his hand—fuck, he’d almost answered the door like this—fuck, he couldn’t answer the door like this, what if she saw them, what if she—shit. Okay. _Okay, get the cards back in the box. Get the box back in the closet. Then answer the door_.

Okay. That was a good plan. That was a solid plan.

He gathered as many as he could up in his fists – frantically shushing the ones that started shouting or singing – and tossed them, a bit haphazardly, down into the box, nudged the box with his foot back into the darkness of the closet, then raced from the bedroom, unlocked the front door and jerked it open.

Panic pricked him at the sight of her, dripping wet, pink hair thoroughly soaked and completely plastered to the side of her head, sleeve of her new teal dress slipping off her shoulder, slightly sheepish smile on her perfectly made-up face.  
_What the fuck happened to her? Must have been bad, to have her dragging herself all the way out here during a storm like this, but she didn’t look upset—didn’t look like she’d been crying, her mascara wasn’t even smudged, and she seemed pretty steady on her feet, and she wasn’t slurring her words, so not drunk—_

“Branch?”

Shit. _Say something, fucker._ “I-I’m not going to your party.” _Okay, good enough._

“Oh! Pfft,” Poppy waved a dismissive hand, hot pink fingernail polish glistening momentarily under the dim lights. “The party’s over! Somebody called the cops on us for noise disturbance! We almost got arrested!” The disbelief in her voice might have fooled the casual listener into thinking that this was the first time something like this had occurred.

“Tragic,” Branch said dryly, but the pressure in his chest eased all the same at her words. Not hurt. Not upset. Just regular old Poppy. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. No need to ask if she was okay, and let on that he gave a shit.

“Oh!” Without a single word of explanation, Poppy lifted her hand, and plunged it down the front of her dress.

_Jesus fucking Christ!_

Burning all the way to the tips of his ears, Branch hastily averted his eyes until, after several long seconds of noisy rummaging, she’d produced her phone and thrust it at him, gesturing to the blank screen.

“My phone, it’s completely dead—and we all kinda scattered when we heard the sirens—and I don’t know where any of them are, and Branch, I’m really worried—and Suki and Smidge and I carpooled with Satin and Chenille, so my car’s back at my dad’s—but then I remembered you lived around here, and that you pretty much never sleep, and I…” Poppy faltered, abruptly falling silent and chewing nervously on her bottom lip. “You—you told me not to throw the party, and I know you’re probably thinking I told you so, but I can’t find anyone, and I’m really worried about them, and now I don’t know what to do!”

“Why don’t you try scrapbooking them all home safely?” The words left his mouth without any serious forethought, and he nearly bit off his own tongue when he realized what he’d said. Jesus fuck, why was he such an asshole? She was _scared_. She’d come to him for help. Was he really not capable of being a decent human being for two fucking seconds?

“Solid burn, Branch,” Poppy conceded, and she didn’t even sound annoyed, just tired and resigned, which made it so much worse.

_Of course she isn’t annoyed. She’s used to dealing with your shit._

“Well,” she released a heavy sigh, and turned on her heel, “thanks, anyway.”

_Great job, dumbass. Now you’ve gone and chased her away, and who knows what she’s gonna do now, all ‘cause you couldn’t keep your shitty thoughts to yourself?_

“Wait, wait, wait,” Branch stepped forward, and grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait a second, where are you going?”

“Well, I gotta find my friends,” she said, like this was obvious. “Cooper and Guy Diamond both had—they both had a lot to drink, Branch, and I think Smidge, too, I gotta make sure they all got home okay.”

“So, you’re going to walk _halfway across town_ ,” incredulity bled through his every word, “in the _dead of night_ , during a _thunderstorm, alone_?” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, and I bet you haven’t eaten anything since you got to that party to begin with, so your glucose levels are probably low.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, sure.”

_God help her._

“Get the fuck in here,” Branch tugged her over the threshold and into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her before he pulled his phone from his jeans. “You’re going to go sit down and eat something, all right?”

Poppy’s lips twitched up into the beginnings of a smile. “Does—does this mean you’re going to help me?”

“No,” Branch said flatly, swiping a finger across the phone’s glowing screen. “I just decided calling a ton of people I barely know at two in the morning sounded like a fucking fantastic idea.”

The smile turned into a beam. “Okay, so,” she pushed a flyaway strand of shocking pink hair back behind her ear, countless bracelets clinking against each other with the motion, “you can almost always reach Cooper through Smidge, and you can almost always reach Smidge through—

“Hang on,” Branch jammed his phone back in his pocket, “I said you were going to sit down and eat something. Then we call your friends.” He pulled her with him into the tiny kitchen.

“Buddy, I appreciate the concern, really, I do, but shouldn’t be we focusing on them?” Poppy asked, as he flung open the nearest cabinet.

The shelf within stood nearly bare, but the sight failed to faze him – ever since the summer, when he’d turned eighteen and that last group home had decided he wasn’t their problem anymore, he’d gotten used to empty cupboards. He’d find a way to fill them back up. He’d manage. He always did.

He pushed the thought away, feeling around blindly in the very back. “You know if you pass out ‘cause you were too careless to eat anything the entire night, I’m leaving you out in the hallway.”

“The hallway,” she repeated. “What, I don’t even—I don’t even get your floor?”

Branch’s fumbling fingers closed around the slick, silvery foil of an unopened granola bar, and he shot her a smirk as he tugged it out. “If it was up to me, you wouldn’t even get the hallway. I’d just dump you in the gutter, and be done with it.”

“That’s a pretty harsh way of treating your best friend in the entire world.” Despite her earlier protests, she took the bar without complaint when he handed it to her.

“You’re probably dehydrated, too,” Branch told her. “There’s a bottled water in the fridge.”

Poppy grinned, and tore the wrapping on the granola bar. “I notice you aren’t denying that I’m your best friend.”

“Bottled water,” Branch reminded her. “And don’t get any ideas. I’m not having that argument with you again.”

She made her way toward the fridge with an irritated huff, pausing with her fingers wrapped around the handle. “C’mon, I know how you like your coffee! That’s like best-friend-tier right there!”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so hard to remember all black,” he dug his phone back out, smothering a smile at the affronted “Hey!” from her end of the kitchen. “And give me a number.”

Poppy bounded out from behind the fridge door, water bottle in one hand, half-wrapped granola bar in the other, jewelry jangling with her every move; she paused to kick the fridge door closed before she uncapped the water bottle, and rattled off some number she said belonged to Cooper.

“But if he doesn’t answer, Smidge should,” she added, around a mouthful of granola bar.

Branch nodded, and put the phone up to his ear.

And damn if Cooper didn’t take his sweet time picking up – which, okay, fine, yeah, Poppy had mentioned earlier how he’d had a lot to drink, which probably had something to do with it, but Jesus Christ, what if he turned out to be a facedown in a gutter the next town over—?

“Hel…lo?”

Branch frowned. “Biggie?”

Poppy’s head snapped up.

After what felt like forever, Biggie finally rasped out, a weird kind of catch in his voice, “Branch?”

Branch blew out a breath. “Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Poppy told me what happened, and—

“Poppy?” Biggie broke in. “She’s all right?”

_Fuck. Probably should have led in with that. The guy’s gotta be worried to death about her._

He scrubbed a hand tiredly over his forehead. “Yeah, she’s with me. I got her set up in the kitchen, she’s fine.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” the words sounded more like a relieved breath than actual speech, “thank heaven she’s all right. I know you’ll look out for her, Branch.”

“Uh…” _You do know I’m the same asshole who’s always ruining her day, right? Kind of putting your trust in the wrong person here._ “Where, uh—where’s Cooper? Is he with you?”

“Oh! Yes! Sorry, suppose I ought to have mentioned that sooner—he’s in the back with the others, I’m taking them all to my house, he had a lot to drink and I’m not sure he—

“The others?” Branch interrupted, leaning back against the kitchen counter; the sharp edge, with its cheap, chipping coat of imitation marble, dug painfully into his hip and he shifted slightly, bringing the phone to his other ear. “You’ve got the others with you, too?” _Please tell me you at least know where they are._

“Oh, yes, sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have mentioned that, too, I—I just didn’t think about it, I’m a little distracted and—sorry, Branch, I—

“Branch? Izzat Branch?” Guy Diamond’s slurred, slightly muffled voice suddenly joined the conversation. “Bigs, izzat Branch?”

“—sorry, hang on just one moment—yes, it’s Branch, and he’s—

“Branch! I fuckin’ knew it!” Guy shouted joyfully, evidently still in the euphoric stages of intoxication. “Tell that punk-ass bitch I said hello!”

“I—I’m so sorry about him,” Biggie sounded positively mortified. “He’s had a lot to drink as well, and I don’t think—

“It’s—it’s fine,” Branch shook his head. “If he passes out or falls asleep, remember to turn him on his side and keep an eye on his breathing.”

“Oh! Oh, Branch, I almost forgot! Is Creek with you and Poppy too, then?”

“Why the fuck would _Creek_ —?” _Okay, that was a little too much venom, even for you. Unclench your teeth and try again._ “Why—why would Creek be—?”

“He went off on his own to look for Poppy, about an hour ago,” Biggie explained. “She wasn’t answering her phone, and—and we were all so worried, and he insisted he could find her…”

_Of fucking course he did._

“I hoped he might have found her, and they might have come to you together…”

_Well, considering I’m not feeling like complete garbage – closer to three-quarters garbage, really – I can safely say I haven’t seen him._

“No, he’s not here. Guess he’s still out looking for her.” Branch stole a glance at Poppy, watching him with wide eyes, granola bar completely forgotten, frozen halfway to her lips. He motioned for her to keep eating, and she pulled a face in response before taking an exaggerated bite. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, but Biggie’s tired voice soon pulled him back into the conversation.

“Right. Thank you, Branch.”

_For what, doing the bare fucking minimum?_

“S-sure, whatever. You—uh—you’ll let Creek know Poppy’s all right?” _If anyone expects me to deal with that shitstorm, forget it. The fucker can keep looking all damn night._

“Oh, yes, of course! Sorry, suppose I should have—

“Yeah,” Branch said wryly, casting another look at Poppy, bouncing impatiently in place beside the fridge, granola bar gone and silver wrapper crumpled in her hand. “Mentioned that. Look, I—I’ve got to go. Don’t give any of them any food or medicine, it’ll irritate the stomach. And make sure their pulses stay even. Just—just keep an eye on them, I’ve really got to get going.” If he didn’t wrap this up soon, he had no doubt Poppy would wrench the phone from his fingers and demand to hear the news. Probably should have handed it off to her and just let her handle everything, but God knew once she and her friends got to chatting, it took a miracle to get them to stop.

“I will, yes,” Biggie assured him. “Thank you, Branch, for everything.”

_Why does he keep saying that? Does he even remember who he’s talking to?_

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Uh—yeah, sure.” Branch cleared his throat. “Monday.” He ended the call before Biggie could respond – no need to prolong the conversation.

“Sooo?” Poppy sprang forward before he’d even so much as lowered his phone, pulling the thin straps of her dress up higher on her shoulder. “Nothing happened? Everyone’s okay?”

“Yeah.” Branch jammed his phone back in his jeans and ran a hand through his hair. “Everyone’s fine, Biggie’s taking them all home. You get enough to eat?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” she glanced briefly at the wrapper still crushed in one fist, and headed for the garbage can. “What about Creek?”

Branch scowled. “What about him?”

“Didn’t you say somethin’ about him?” She tossed the wrapper in the garbage and turned around again to face him, raising her eyebrows. “He’s—he’s okay, right?”  
“Yeah, he’s fine.” _Which is too bad, really._ “He split to look for you a little while ago.” _Hope he got lost._ “Biggie’s letting him know you’re okay.”

Poppy released a breath. “Good. Good, good, good. It’s—it’s good that they’re all okay.”

“Yeah, fucking fantastic.” Branch rounded the counter and slipped past her to nudge open the bedroom door, thanking whatever higher power that had granted him the foresight to put her invitations back in his closet before answering the door.

“Come on. I’d better take you home before your friends think I’ve kidnapped you.” He snatched up his worn-out jacket and shabby sneakers.

“ _Our_ friends,” Poppy insisted, setting her half-empty water bottle down on the counter.

“ _Your_ friends,” Branch corrected her, swinging the jacket over his shoulders. “And take the water with you. You’re probably dehydrated. I bet you could use it.”

“ _Our_ friends,” she repeated obstinately, picking the bottle back up again. “Don’t fight it.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t have anything to drink at that party?” Branch glanced up from where he knelt to lace his sneakers, and grinned at the look on her face.

Poppy began to sputter. “I swear to God, Branch—

“Come on.” He schooled his features back into a frown, pausing by the door to retrieve the small black umbrella leaning against the wall and grab the keys up off the counter. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explanation for this chapter is literally 'I got bored'. That's it, that's the entire thing. I didn't have most of what happens in this chapter in the original outline, so I was really winging it for a lot of this. judging by how this turned out, I should never be allowed to write without an outline again, but I tried ;-; also it was getting way too long so I had to end it there, even though I'm not particularly happy with that. also I took some creative liberties with group homes - I know they DO hold the power to turn out inhabitants over the legal age, but I also know it's a lot more complicated than I made it sound - because I wanted Branch to live alone to create the same sense of isolation we get from him at the beginning of the film, regardless of how unrealistic it might be. (On the other hand, I've known tons of people, foster kids included, who lived on their own before even graduating high school, so it might not be THAT far-fetched.)


	3. Chapter 3

Branch’s car, he supposed, wasn’t really so much a _car_ as it was a scuffed-up, high-mileage, beat-to-hell, dark-green disaster he’d gotten secondhand and dirt-cheap sometime last autumn. The driver’s side door could jam for up to an hour every fourth time it was opened, and the engine obstinately refused to start up until he’d given the trunk a series of light kicks in exactly the right spot, and the passenger seat bore a tear from which yellowed stuffing leaked almost constantly – but it was safe, and sturdy, and well-built, and on a good day, he’d even go so far as to call it _dependable_ , and lately, he may or may not have taken to calling it Gary. And greeting it every morning with a small rap of his knuckles against the hood, and carrying on entire conversations with it.

Okay, yeah, it was official: he was pathetic.

Look, it was Gary’s fault – he had too much personality and made too much noise, it was like he was talking, like maybe he was groaning out a good morning every time Branch put the key in the ignition, or grumbling about the paint job on his nose when he slowed to a crawl, or squeaking about his one contrary windshield wiper when he went down a hill, and more than once, Branch had responded before he could stop himself, patting the dash soothingly and murmuring a sympathetic, “I know, buddy, hang in there”, or a gloomy, “No, Gary, it’s _not_ a good morning, it’s a fucking _Monday_.”

Right now, though, Gary had rather courteously confined himself to near-total silence, save the occasional low rumble, giving Branch the opportunity to focus instead on Poppy’s exuberant chatter as she worked her way through an endless string of totally unrelated topics – from ugh, her clothes were so wet, this was so _cold_ , to her dad helping her clean up the glitter she’d spilled all over her bedroom carpet this morning to the party earlier tonight where she’d spotted Cooper using Doritos as a chaser – how the _fuck_ were they not dead yet? – and from there, she veered unexpectedly into a lengthy but highly entertaining account of the time Creek tried to teach her yoga.

“…I just wish I could have been better at it,” Poppy concluded, reaching up to readjust her flower crown, which had begun to tilt considerably to the left. “I mean, he _said_ it was fine, and he said stuff like that just isn’t for everybody, but I could tell he was kinda disappointed, ya know?”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” Branch murmured; the sound of his own voice actually startled him a bit. He’d decided before the ride had even started to stay quiet and let her talk herself out – she’d had a shitty night, and he recognized the constant, slightly erratic flow of prattle as her way of distracting herself, if only for a short while.

“Oh, come on, Branch!” Poppy’s bracelets jangled loudly as she folded her arms over her chest. “Creek is a _great_ guy! What on earth do you have against him?”

Branch’s fingers tightened by a fraction on the wheel.

_Well, I don’t know, Poppy. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that time in eighth grade, when he’d told me I’d be just another teen-suicide statistic before the year was out, now, could it? And before you can ask, no, I don’t care that he’s changed. You know who else can “change”? Murderers. Hey, don’t look at me like that – scrapbooking is your hobby. Holding grudges is mine._

Okay, that was it. That was it, that was enough—that was enough going down memory lane for tonight, thank you very much. Yeah, he was just done with memory lane for the rest of the night. And for the rest of his life.

Oh, shit, she was looking at him. He never took his eyes from the dark road unfurling slowly under the harsh glare of his headlights, but he could feel the force of her gaze, like a physical weight, roving heavy over his face. She was waiting for him to answer.

That was the problem with Poppy, was how she actually listened to him. How she actually seemed interested in what he had to say, even if she never, ever agreed with it. She hadn’t just rolled her eyes and written him off after his seven-hundredth pessimistic comment – which put her largely in the minority. Okay, so there was no “minority”. She was it. She was the only one. Her and Gary.

“He, uh…”

Shit, there was no good way to finish that sentence. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was about to go bringing up eighth grade at three in the goddamn morning – he couldn’t discuss that shit in broad fucking daylight, let alone right now. Okay, so he needed something else. Good thing he kept his mental, alphabetized list of Creek’s every fault handy.

“…He’s smug.”

_There. That’s good. Though ‘smug’ might be putting it a bit lightly. The way he acts, you’d think he’s God’s gift to humanity._

“Smug?” Poppy repeated indignantly. “He—he is _not_ smug! He’s—he’s sweet, and smart, and hardworking, and dedicated, and friendly…”

And Branch—Branch didn’t care, _at all,_ about the warm note of admiration in her voice, or the slightly pink tinge to her freckled cheeks, or the huge, goofy grin on her face that only Creek could ever bring out—Branch definitely didn’t care about that, and he definitely didn’t care, at all, that he would never, ever make her smile that way.

“—and he’s funny, you should hear his jokes sometime, Branch—

_Yeah, Poppy, believe it or not, I’ve heard his jokes. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m usually at the center of them._

“—and his hair has all those little curls at the tips, it’s so cute—

“I’m driving now,” Branch said stonily. “Driving means _focus_. Focus means _quiet_. So be quiet.”

Okay, so maybe he did care. A little. But only because her silly, annoying, lovestruck rambling was distracting him.

Poppy fell silent with an aggravated huff, slumping back against the slightly sticky imitation leather seat, with a murmur on her lips that sounded suspiciously like, “You didn’t need to focus earlier.” Nonetheless, it took her maybe five seconds to sit back up and throw him a hopeful glance, fresh smile pulling at her strawberry-glossed lips. “Okay! Okay, so we can’t talk, I get that. How about some music, then?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on!” She threw her arms wide in exasperation. “You can’t expect me to just—just sit here! In total _silence_!”

“Yeah, I can. Matter of fact, you sitting in total silence is a recurring daydream of mine.” In spite of himself, Branch couldn’t completely suppress the grin tugging at his lips at the furious sputtering issuing from the passenger seat; all the same, he gave in. “Just keep it down, all right? And try and find a station that isn’t complete shit.”

Poppy beamed, bouncing a little in her seat, and nodding so vigorously her pink ponytail bobbed behind her. “You got it, my man!” She reached eagerly for the knob. “How do you feel about old stuff? I’m talkin’ seventies, eighties.”

Branch perked up – well, if he was capable of anything like perking, he would have perked. Really, he just kind of sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Are you fucking kidding me, Poppy? That stuff was my _shit_ when I—I…” He could physically feel the huge grin on her face, probably could have reached out and touched the satisfaction in it, and his cheeks reddened. He sank back down in his seat, ears beginning to burn. “I mean—y-yeah, sure, whatever. J-just keep it down.” _Really fucking smooth, dumbass._

Poppy smirked.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything!” she protested.

“You were thinking it. I could _hear_ you thinking it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she rolled her eyes, and twisted the knob.

It took a few minutes – not to mention an unwelcome detour over to some shitty pop station that played three awful songs in a row that Poppy insisted were some of her “absolute favorites” – before she got them on the right track, and a familiar melody flooded the car.

_“—and I need you now tonight—_

And then—then there were headlights bright headlights the brightest he’d ever seen, blazing, closer and closer, coming right at him, car barreling toward him—

_“—and I need you more than ever—_

—and there were people yelling and his heart was pounding and he was suddenly on the other side of the street with gravel cutting into his hands, thin lines of blood trickling down his palms and everyone was yelling and _it was all so loud_ and—

_“—and if you only hold me tight—_

—and then he thrust the wheel to one side and—

_“—we’ll be holding on forever—_

—the tires screeched against the pavement and—

_“—and we’ll only be making it right—_

—they were on the grass and—

_“—‘cause we’ll never be wrong—_

—and everything was still.

_“—together—_

He hit the knob.

Curled his fingers into a fist and just—just slammed it as hard as he could, and the radio went off, and everything was quiet and he knew everything was quiet he knew everything was quiet only he could still hear the tires screeching and he could still hear her screaming and everything was dark but he could still see the headlights blinding him and the grey sedan so close he could have reached out and touched the nose and could feel the lyrics dying on his lips and he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t fucking breathe he couldn’t fucking breathe _he couldn’t fucking breathe when his chest was fucking caving in on him_ —

“—Branch—

Fuck. _Poppy._

Poppy was here. Poppy was here. Poppy was here. Poppy was here he couldn’t do this he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t fucking do this when she was here he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t not when she was here—

“Hey, it’s all right, buddy. It’s all right.”

No it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t it _wasn’t_ all right _it wasn’t fucking all right_ , and it was all his fault it was all his fault it was _all his fault_ and if he’d been _paying attention_ instead of singing that _stupid fucking song_ she’d still be here but she wasn’t she was gone _she was gone_ and nothing was _ever_ going to be all right again.

His forehead beginning to ache from where it was pressing into the cool, hard ridge of the steering wheel, and his heart pounding so fast it was almost painful, Branch dragged in breath after agonizing, shuddering, hard-won breath—there was no fucking air in this goddamn car, he couldn’t fucking breathe, he couldn’t fucking breathe, and he just needed it all to stop to slow down to be quiet it was all so loud it was all so goddamn loud the screech of tires and the screams of neighbors still ringing in his ears his own raw, panicked gasps ripping their way from his tight, dry throat it was all _too fucking loud_ and he couldn’t do this he couldn’t do this Poppy was sitting right there Poppy was sitting right there he couldn’t fucking do this he just needed to—

_Fucking breathe, dumbass!_

He was trying he was trying he was trying there was no air and everyone was screaming and the grey sedan came to a dead stop in the middle of the street but it was too late and everyone was screaming and it was too late and everyone was screaming everyone was screaming and it was too late and she wasn’t moving and when he blinked he could still see the headlights and he could still hear her voice but she wasn’t moving she wasn’t moving she wasn’t moving and he’d watch as they covered her up with a big white sheet and he’d stand silent and numb and shaking on the side of the road with his bleeding hands and hollow heart and know beyond a shadow of a motherfucking doubt that it was all his fault.

And Poppy was here Poppy was here he couldn’t fucking do this when Poppy was here he couldn’t fucking do this in front of fucking Poppy but he didn’t know how to stop it and _are you really having a nervous fucking breakdown because of a song on the radio, you pathetic piece of shit?_

“—it’s okay—

And Poppy was—Poppy was talking Poppy was talking she was talking and talking and talking and he thought she might have maybe been talking to him because she kept saying his name but it didn’t matter because he couldn’t understand one word of it he couldn’t understand anything except that it was all his fault and he couldn’t understand anything except that he really, really wanted her to keep talking because right now her voice was the only thing he had to hold onto, the one constant in the dizzying blur his world had become, and he thought maybe she might be touching him, his shoulder, because he could feel her hand, warm and firm and real, and he couldn’t be sure but he thought that this was maybe the first time anyone had touched him in what must be a hundred thousand years and somewhere inside him something hollow and hungry pleaded and pleaded and pleaded for her to never let him go.

“—hey, it’s okay, it’s okay—

_Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you? Poppy just had a really, really fucked-up night, and you’re seriously gonna just sit there and fuck it up even further ‘cause you can’t hold it together for two fucking seconds? So a song you knew as a kid came on the radio. Cry me a fucking river. Just stop acting like a goddamn baby, and get her the fuck home. Save your little bitch-ass breakdown for when you’re alone, all right? She doesn’t need this shit._

Right, yeah, that was—that was a good plan. That was a good plan, that was a great plan, if he could just fucking breathe, if he could just stop seeing the grey sedan—the headlights blazing—

_Get Poppy home. She doesn’t need this shit._

And that was a good plan, that was a really good plan, if he could just stop tasting those lyrics on his tongue—stop feeling the warm blood staining his palms—

_Jesus fucking Christ! Pretend you’re an actual functioning human being, pull yourself the fuck together, and get her home! She doesn’t need this shit! She doesn’t fucking need this shit! Get her home!_

Right. Okay. Good plan. Good plan good plan good plan good plan.

Branch dragged his head up off the steering wheel – _get her home, get her home, she doesn’t need this shit, get her home_ – and reached out a shaking hand to grasp the lever. Thank God, thank fucking God, or whatever had granted him the presence of mind to pull over earlier, and thank fucking God he’d done nothing but pull over. Thank God he hadn’t hit the gas—thank God he hadn’t tried to keep driving—thank God he hadn’t crashed—thank God he hadn’t hit something—thank God he hadn’t hurt anybody—thank God he hadn’t killed anybody—

“Hey, are you—?”

Poppy’s voice, though low, jerked him sharply from his thoughts, and he started slightly, bumping one knee painfully against the dash, before lifting his gaze to meet hers – her mouth was drawn down in a thin, pinched pink line, her eyes ranging anxiously over his face, fingers warm, and steady, and still resting on his shoulder.  
“Are you—okay?”

_Fucking terrific. Now she’s worried about you. Never mind how much of an asshole you’ve been to her ever since she showed up at your door, never mind that you just went and loaded her down with your sad, fucked-up little life ‘cause you can’t keep it together long enough to even drive her home, she’s worried about you. Good fucking job, jackass._

Branch shifted back in his seat, trying to tell his fucking hands to stop fucking shaking because he wasn’t there anymore – he wasn’t standing on the side of the road watching a grey sedan skid to a panicked stop, and he wasn’t five years old anymore. “I’m _fine_.”

It probably didn’t convince her, but she didn’t press him – just nodded slowly, and let her hands drop back into her lap. “You think you’re good to drive now?”

_You think I’d be stupid enough to do it if I wasn’t?_

He scrubbed a tired hand across dry, aching eyes before sitting up a little straighter, and shifting into drive. _Just keep it the fuck together._ “Y-yeah. Seatbelt still on?”

Poppy patted the buckle at her waist in response and he eased the car cautiously back out onto the road.

“So, you…” she propped her chin in her hands, “you wanna talk about it?”

_I’d rather shit a knife._

“No.”

But of fucking course Poppy couldn’t just leave it at that. “You—are you sure? ‘Cause, you know, there’s a—

“I’m sure,” Branch’s tone, even to his own ears, sounded blunt and thin as taut wire – Bridget called it his “fuck-off” voice – but he was some hundred miles beyond guilt at this point. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Poppy protested; she still couldn’t take a fucking hint. “You hold it all in, and it’s all gonna fall out someday, trust m—

_“Fuck off!”_ It was like a crumbling dam that suddenly burst, fury spilling from his lips like water. “God, Poppy, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you? _I fucking said no!”_

“I-I’m sorry,” Poppy drew back slightly, as though he’d slapped her, “I just—I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t _need_ your _help_ ,” Branch bit out, fingers clenched so tight around the wheel his skin had gone pale. “I need you to get the fuck out of my life. Just ‘cause I’m stuck working backstage with you every goddamn day doesn’t make us _friends_ , it doesn’t make us _buddies_ or _pals_ or whatever the fuck you want to call it, all right, so just—just leave me alone! Stop trying to help me! I’m fucking sick of all your _cupcakes-and-rainbows shit,_ so for the last time, _leave me out of it_!” The last word had barely left his lips before the guilt flared up like a sudden fire in the pit of his stomach, driving out every other thought – shit, okay, yeah, that—that was—that was—

Poppy released a small, slightly shaky breath, loud as a scream in the silence settling heavily over them.

Branch didn’t look at her; he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the world outside the rain-spattered windshield, tapping his brakes and slowing to a crawl before halting completely at the red light blazing in front of them, bathing the car’s interior in a bright ruby glow. “You…you live on Queen Street, right?”

He risked a glance to see, by light of the harsh red glare, her pink lips pressed tightly together as she nodded.

“Take the left turn, and you’ll be in my neighborhood.” There was no warmth in her voice.

_Shit, I really fucked up._

“R-right.” Branch edged the car slowly into the turn; well-kept homes lined up in neat rows on either side of the road greeted him shortly after.

The sight of her house, set grandly at the end of the street, towering considerably over its fellows, putting him in mind of, oddly, a pristine, white-shingled king holding court, proved a welcome distraction; he brought the car to a stop when he reached the end of the drive. “We—uh—we’re here.”

Poppy unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed open the door.

“Wait.”

She hesitated a minute, fingers stilling in place around the door handle, then turned back to look at him expectantly.

_Shit. What the fuck did you do that for, dumbass? What, you gonna say ‘sorry’ and make it all better?_

“You—you…” _You aren’t annoying I’m not sick of you I don’t hate you I’m an asshole just stop listening when I speak ‘cause all I do is say stupid shit I don’t mean anyway._ “You should—you should take the umbrella.” On an impulse, he nudged the damp heap of black nylon toward her with his sneaker. “It’s still raining out there.”

Poppy reached down and drew it slowly up from the floor, but her eyes never left his.

“Thank you.”

With that, she left the car, stepping out onto the pavement and stilling a second before slamming the door and continuing on her way, up the walk.

Branch waited until she’d disappeared inside to pull away from the curb. Poppy’s cheerful chatter still echoed in his ears, and the dead silence that now pervaded the car was suddenly unbearable.  
The engine rumbled softly, as if sensing his feelings, and his fingers tightened marginally around the wheel.

“I fucked up, Gary,” he murmured. “I really fucked up.”


	4. Chapter 4

"— _stuck working backstage with you—every goddamn day—don't need your help—not friends—or whatever the fuck you want to call it—what the fuck is wrong with you—leave me alone—get the fuck out of my life—stop trying—fuck off—cupcakes and rainbows shit—leave me out of it—!"_

The thousandth time since he'd said the words, and he could still hear them—his own voice, a constant, excruciating roar in his ears, louder than the rush of the water, louder than the clinks of the dirty cutlery and dishes in the sink, louder than the jukebox blaring some shitty song he didn't care enough to try and name, louder than the low hum of chatter from late-night diners on the other side of the door, louder than the chinks and scrapes of silverware against ceramic, louder than everything in this stupid goddamn wannabe diner, louder than anything he'd ever heard in his entire fucking life, louder louder _louder_ —and when he closed his eyes, it only got louder—God, he could still see the way Poppy had pressed her lips together, the way she'd clenched her hands into fists in her lap, the way she wouldn't speak to him, the way she wouldn't even look at him, face tense and tired in the blazing, bright red glow of the traffic light in front of them, and something in the pit of his stomach began to burn all over again until he felt like he was on fire, inside and out.

 _Why_  was he always such an _asshole_? And why did Poppy always try and shove her way into stuff that wasn't  _any of her fucking business_? And why did he always come up with shitty excuses every time he acted like a dick, and why couldn't she ever listen to him when he said  _no_ , and why couldn't he stop blowing up at her just because she pushed him in places he didn't want to be pushed, and why couldn't she stop pushing him in places he didn't want to be pushed, and why couldn't he just learn to stop being so goddamn sensitive and guard those places a little better, and why couldn't she just take a fucking hint and leave him alone and why couldn't he ever just push her away without pulling her right back again three seconds later because he couldn't let her get too close but he couldn't let her go because he was so fucking  _stupid_  and  _pathetic_ —

"Branch?"

He jerked, startled.  _"What?"_  He didn't feel it, when he spoke—the thrum in his throat or the sweep of his tongue—but only he could take such a harmless word and turn it hostile. Yeah. Definitely him.

"Um…" Bridget leaned against the door and chewed her lip—her dark eyes darted hesitantly up from under her frizzy brown bangs to meet his own. She lasted barely a second before she looked away again, fidgeting nervously with her notepad. "Um, H-Harper—Harper texted me. She and Karma, th-they—they should be here in the next ten minutes, but—"

"I'm just finishing up here, anyway." Branch glanced away from the last plate, and the stubborn bit of maple syrup still clinging to the edge. "Give me a minute, I'll be right out."

"Oh! Oh, no, Branch, that's not what I meant, you don't—you don't _have_  to—"

"Go ahead and grab your stuff," he cut her off—and, yes, okay, fine, his voice was maybe a little higher and a hell of a lot louder than normal, but look, he was just—he was just not listening to that again, okay—she really needed to quit acting like he was doing her some sort of favor, it wasn't even like it took him out of his way or anything—barely two fucking minutes, if that. He finally scrubbed off the sticky glob and shoved the plate, still soaking wet, up into the cupboard. Chef would have his head on her best platter if she could see him now.

"C'mon," he added, when Bridget didn't move, "it's getting late. Chad and Todd will worry, and I'm not fucking driving back here at three in the goddamn morning 'cause you forgot your phone again—"

"Branch," Bridget didn't have his top-of-the-line death glare, or even his run-of-the-mill asshole scowl, but the look in her eyes still stopped him mid-sentence. " _Wait_. I'm just trying to tell you, Keith's here—"

"Wait, wait, what?" Branch frowned at her, swiping his dripping palms on the thighs of his jeans—it left dark, damp streaks all along the faded, fraying denim. "Again?" He tugged his phone from his pocket and checked the glowing screen—the bright white numbers blinking back at him read _ten-fifteen_. He groaned, and shoved his phone back in his jeans. "Christ, Archer needs to keep a better eye on that kid." He plucked the notepad from Bridget's unresisting fingers, and flung it down onto the counter by the sink. "All right, I'll take care of it. Not like it's a long haul."

At least that was true—Crashers was just a few buildings down from the diner. Hell, he could walk the distance without tiring. Get the kid, get to Crashers, explain things to Archer—not even that, really. It wasn't like this was a new occurrence for any of them. Well, one way or another, this complete fuckwaste of a day was coming to a close, and it really couldn't come soon enough.

"Oh, no, Branch, that's not what I meant—I can do it, I just wanted to let you know—"

"Bridget, it'll take me literally maybe ten minutes, and I'm headed out anyway, so I might as well—'sides, Chad and Todd will kill you if you're late coming home and don't give them a heads-up—"

"—you hate Archer, and I am  _not_ pulling you two off each other again—"

"—okay, _that_  was  _one time_ —!"

Bridget opened her mouth, but before she could fire back, the door banged open, crashed back against the kitchen wall, and the klutzy, paint-splattered Harper came stumbling into the room, alternating between shushing the door and apologizing to it. "Sorry, guys," she added bashfully, and waved a little, when she noticed she had an audience.

Bridget waved back.

"Where's Karma?" Branch demanded.

Harper frowned, but answered, "On her way." She held up her phone. "Stuck in traffic again." She glanced at her screen, tapped it a few times, and clicked her tongue in sympathy. "Keith's here, by the way," she tacked on, without looking up.

"Yeah, we covered that," Branch said flatly. "I'm on it. Come on," he added, to Bridget, "you ready?"

"I—yeah, I'm coming." Bridget nodded, and grabbed her phone up off the counter.

Harper shot her a parting smile, and another wave. "Have a great night, Bridget!"

Bridget smiled back over her shoulder. "Oh, you too! Good luck on that painting, by the way!"

"Oh, my gosh, thank you!" Harper gushed. "You have no idea how crazy hard it's been—!"

Branch stepped past the both of them, and shoved open the kitchen door—yeah, the kid was still there, practically impossible to miss in the nearly-empty diner—all squashed up in a corner booth, little legs dangling a full three feet from the floor, scribbling furiously in a beat-up spiral-bound one-subject, face and fingers smeared with ink.

It took all of two seconds to get across the diner, and to the kid's table—didn't have to worry about dodging a thousand customers, for a start. Place was almost deserted at this time of night, but it'd fill back up with the usual groups of partygoers, university students, and dead-eyed insomniacs in a few hours. He bent at the waist, hands on his knees, eye level with the kid. "Slip off again, huh?" He cleared his throat, cleared away the last of his default voice—which sounded, according to Bridget, like he wanted to drive a railroad spike through his own or somebody else's skull.

Keith stopped writing, shoulders bunching uncomfortably around his ears, then slumping down so low, he looked seconds away from seriously dislocating something. He dropped his chin on the table, beside the open notebook, with a thump. "Are you gonna take me back?"

Branch lifted one shoulder, and let it drop a second later in a half-shrug. "Kind of comes with the territory."

"Hmph." Keith shut his notebook, but didn't take his head off the table. "Archer's gonna kill me."

"I'll remember you."

"Give me a Viking funeral?"

"Can't deny a kid his last wish."

A twitch of the lips and then, all at once, Keith's somber demeanor cracked clean in two, and he laughed, loud and full and real.

Something inside Branch jerked sharply, then lifted a little at the sight. Kid didn't get many opportunities to laugh like that—parents dead, and an asshole for an older brother who only stuck with him out of some fucked-up sense of family obligation—yeah. The kid really didn't have a whole lot of reason to be happy these days. But—somehow—he managed it. And he managed it pretty damn well, at that.

" _Okay."_  Keith surrendered, sat up, and scooted out of the booth. "I'm coming."

Branch snagged the notebook off the table, and shot a glance at the tattered black cover. "How's the story coming along?" He handed Keith the notebook.

"Oh!" Keith beamed. The kid always lit up when he found someone to talk to about his ideas. He didn't have a whole lot of people like that. Branch made sure to always be one. "Great! I'm on chapter fifty-seven now!"

"Chapter fifty-seven?" Branch repeated incredulously, and raised his eyebrows—how the fuck did anyone,  _anywhere_ , have the attention span for something like that? "Uh, so, I'm guessing you're past the part where he met the hermit."

Keith laughed. " _Way_  past that! He finally vanquished his evil twin, and now he's struck a deal with a bounty hunter, so he's got to face Lord Badguy himself!"

"Evil twin?" Branch echoed.

"Mm-hm." Keith nodded, and hugged the notebook to his chest. "So he's got to face Lord Badguy himself, and now they're just about to duel."

"Wow," Branch's brows went even higher, "you reallytore through this thing, huh? You're almost finished." Hard to believe the kid had actually seen it through.

" _No,"_  Keith laughed again, and shook his head. "I have forty-two more chapters planned after this."

"Shi—"  _Child, child, he is a literal child._ "—shi—sure—uh, sure! Sure sounds like a big project!"

Keith looked decidedly too pleased with the slip—oh, right, yeah, he literally had  _Archer_  for an older brother. He'd probably heard it all at this point. Branch was just a fucking dumbass.

He cleared his throat. "So, he duels Lord Badguy?"

Keith nodded energetically. "Yep! But he hasn't finished his training yet, so Lord Badguy—"

The kitchen door swung open again, and Bridget slipped out into the diner.

Keith abruptly stopped talking—well, of fucking course he did, he always did—he wasn't stupid—he knew what most people thought of him—knew what his sorry excuse for a brother thought of him—if Branch closed his eyes, the small voice would echo forever in his ears— _I'm not an idiot, Branch, am I—?_

Keith stayed silent next to him as Bridget made her way across the diner and over to them.

"Sorry," Bridget said, when she reached them, and offered Branch a small, apologetic smile. "Harper had a lot to say about her painting."

Branch led the way out of the diner and through the parking lot—he stuck around while Bridget got herself settled in her car, doors locked and engine rumbling—he didn't move until the ancient-looking vehicle had sputtered its way out into the street—could never be too careful—half the streetlights blown out, and the other half flickering dimly, and God knew the only kind of weapon Bridget carried was her keys—

"C-come on." Branch shook himself, and glanced at Keith—he paused to nod briefly to Karma as she climbed from her car, and waited until the door to the diner had clicked shut behind her before he turned in the direction of Crashers. "Let's get you back to Archer."

Crashers was a really terrible name for an auto garage, but Crashers was also a really terrible excuse  _for_  an auto garage—and Archer was a really terrible excuse for a human being—so it kind of all fit together, to tell the truth.

Branch nudged Keith through the door first—kid had conveniently forgotten how to move his legs the minute they reached the building—and stepped in after him. He'd just barely cleared the threshold when he spotted Archer, already storming his way over to them. With the scowl on his face, the smear of grease on the bridge of his ski-jump nose, the sterling silver stud glistening dully against his bottom lip, the rips in his thrift-store jeans, and the resounding thud of his heavy black boots against the floor, Archer Pastry had been known to part a crowd like goddamn Moses parting the Red Sea.

He zeroed in on Keith the instant he'd reached them. "I  _told_  you," he hissed, his every word taut as stretched string. "I  _told_ you to  _stay put_."

"I got  _bored_." Keith jutted out his chin defiantly. "And  _hungry_."

Branch stepped back a little and stuck a hand out, fumbling blindly at his back to find the door—he'd done his job, he'd gotten the kid back to Crashers, and as bad as he felt for Keith, he wasn't about to stick around to see the Pastry family shitshow—and he was  _not_ hanging around Archer any longer than he had to—but then he couldn't  _find_  the fucking door—his fingers grasped nothing but empty air and— _ugh—shit—_ Archer glanced away from Keith for half a second, and spotted him.

Branch abandoned his search for the door, folded his arms over his chest, and stood up a little straighter.

Archer's dark eyes narrowed. "Keith," he said, sharply, but he never looked away from Branch, "go get my bag."

"A-Archer, wait, no," Keith shot Branch an anxious look. "C'mon, don't get mad at Branch, he didn't do anything—!"

"Keith,  _go_ ,"Archer snapped, and the bite in his voice did its job—didn't it always—the kid bit his lip, ducked his head and, with one final glance at Branch over his shoulder, darted off—and the minute he was out of earshot, Archer straightened up, and turned back to Branch. " _What_. The  _fuck_. Are you  _doing_  here?"

Right, yeah, like this was some kind of fucking  _party_  to him. Like Archer actually thought he wanted to be here  _at fucking all_. Branch returned the glare. "Just keep a better eye on the kid, and I won't  _have_  to come here,  _asshole_."  _Oh, and hey, while you're at it, how about you try being even a halfway decent older brother? Or even just point-one percent less of a heartless shitstain? I'm sure Keith's not that picky._

Archer took a step forward, loud and heavy in his boots. "You want to say that again?"

"Why?" Branch raised his eyebrows. "Did you go deaf since I saw you last?"

"If you think," Archer's hands clenched up in fists, and he spat every word from his mouth like poison, "if you think for  _one fucking second_  you can come riding in here on your  _high horse_  and tell me how to look after my  _own fucking brother_ —!"

"No," a voice in the back of his mind that sounded very much like Bridget was telling him to shut up while he still had the chance to get back out of here without a fist in his face, or Archer's blood on his knuckles, but the words just wouldn't stay inside him—so much exhaustion and rage swelling up in his chest, and one way or another, they were going to get out. "No, I'm not wasting my breath. I'd tell you to look after him if I thought you actually would."

Archer started toward him.

All right, so this was happening. This was a thing that was happening. Branch considered, briefly, calling time-out long enough for them to take it outside—the guy who ran Crashers was almost as big an asshole as Archer, and the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with that, on top of everything else—

And then—out of nowhere—Keith appeared between them, and dropped an enormous black bag at Archer's feet.  _"There,"_  he groused, "there's your stupid bag. Can we _go_  now?"

Archer's dark eyes flicked down to his brother, and he—finally—seemed to realize what he was doing—he stepped back a little, and swallowed, throat bobbing with the motion. "I—" He glanced, briefly, back at Branch. "—yeah." He snatched his bag up from the floor, and shoved roughly past Branch. "Come on, Keith."

As Keith slipped by, half a step behind Archer, he lifted his head just long enough to shoot Branch a small, slightly hesitant smile—Branch forced the scowl from his face long enough to return it—the kid looked like he needed it—no, fuck that, the kid  _did_  need it—Branch thought, not for the first time, that Archer Pastry needed a goddamn wake-up call—he couldn't imagine—his throat seared as he thought of it—he couldn't imagine having even so much as the _smallest fragment_ of family, and  _not even caring_.

The door shut behind them, and Branch counted to thirty in the entryway before he slipped out after them.

* * *

"So," Poppy said conversationally, like everything was completely normal and she hadn't spent the last ten minutes dragging him down five different hallways in uncharacteristic silence—no,  _literally_  dragging him, her fingers clamped on his arm like a vice, like some kind of animal hauling the dead carcass of its fellow back to the nest for a cannibalistic feast, while he stumbled after her and had about three thousand heart attacks in a row because  _shit,_  he had just really not banked on Poppy pouncing on him the minute he stepped inside—after the shit he'd said on Friday night, he'd kind of figured she'd never speak to him again—

"Okay," Poppy skidded to a halt—right outside the—the fucking auditorium, she'd taken him down to  _the fucking auditorium_ —she didn't give him a chance to speak, either, just barreled right on, jabbing a finger at the piece of paper pinned to the wall. "Here's the dealio, my man—"

Branch bit back a sigh—he _really_  needed to get to class—he was already running really fucking late—he glanced reluctantly at the sheet—

Right there at the top, in stark black ink, just above Poppy's hot-pink fingernail, Bridget's name blazed against the bright white.

"Bridget—?" Look, it wasn't—it wasn't like Branch actually _cared_  or anything, no way, no _fucking_ way, not in a million years—but—he couldn't help it—he looked at the page again. Something inside him swelled at the sight of her name. "Bridget got—?"

"—got the part," Poppy finished for him, nodding. "And yes, that's _amazing_ , and I'm  _so_  happy for her, and she's in for the biggest hug of her entire _life_  when I see her, and oh, gosh,  _wait_ until you see the congratulatory scrapbook, I've already got  _so many ideas_ —!"

"Poppy." No, her enthusiasm wasn't even the slightest bit adorable. Shut up, heart.

"—right, right, sorry." Poppy held up her hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender, and straightened up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A-anyway, I—I have—" she chewed nervously on her strawberry-glossed lip. "—I need a favor, Branch," she said, all in a rush, tugging anxiously at the ends of her dyed hair. "A—and, listen, first period starts in literally the next two minutes, so I really don't have a lot of time, but if you'll meet me in the lot at lunch, I'll explain everything—we can grab some food, if you want, my treat—"

_Oh, no, no, no, no, don't do this, do not do this, do not fucking do this. Last time she asked you for a favor, you lost your shit. Do not do this. Do not fucking do this. Tell her no, and get the fuck out of here._

"—a-and I promise, it's really not anything big, b-but if you agreed, I would  _really_  owe you one—and I'm really sorry, I-I know I've got to be the last person you want to see—"

Branch dragged in a breath.

_Fuck, no, no, don't, come on, don't, just say no, just say—_

"I'll be there."

_Fucking dumbass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? writing self-indulgent garbage and calling it an update? it's more likely than you think! shit, guys. i just. i'm so fucking sorry. it's been so long. i don't even have an excuse for this. also this chapter was literally just me deciding i wanted Archer Pastry in this fic and from there it spiraled into a whole dynamic between him and Branch and then Keith just somehow wound up in there by accident shtrgfgb i dont. even know. also Branch really needs to slow his roll. like this entire fic is just him overreacting. it's extremely relatable.


	5. Chapter 5

Branch had a plan.

It was a little rough around the edges. Okay, fine—it was a  _lot_  rough around the edges, with about a hundred gaping holes, and if he stood at the mouth of all those holes and looked down, there were sharp spikes, shining silver at the bottom, waiting for him to slip and fall and impale himself, and die a miserable death in the horrible depths of a pitch-black pit, but it was kind of  _all he fucking had right now,_ and when he put it like _that_ , it looked a hell of a lot better.

Okay, right, step one,  _find out what Poppy wants_  would lead right into step two— _do it—_ because God in heaven knew he would, no matter what he tried to tell himself—might as well just go full-throttle and spell out _SUCKER_  in big red letters across his forehead one of these days. Step three— _don't freak out on her_ —would probably be the part that tripped him up, and step four—

—step four—

— _stop thinking about kissing her so damn much, you pathetic piece of shit—_

—step four was im-fucking-possible. Forget step four. Step four wasn't even a  _plan_. Step four was just a goddamn wish list.

Poppy was already in the lot when he stepped outside—bobbing nervously on her heels with a hand on the hood of the bright-white '67 Lincoln she'd lost her goddamn mind over when her father handed her the keys on her sixteenth birthday—and Branch knew because she hadn't shut up about it for a solid week, and oh, God, how many times had he tried to tell himself he absolutely  _didn't_ find it sexy that the girl could appreciate a nice, old-school car—

Aaaand he was already failing spectacularly on step four.

He could go back inside. She hadn't seen him yet. He could go back inside—hell, he should go back inside, just go back inside, it'd be doing everyone a favor, because then she wouldn't have to put up with him and he wouldn't have to think about kissing her stupid perfect lips and down the length of her stupid perfect neck and on down to her—

_Okay, thank you, that's enough, goodbye!_

Yeah, no. He really should just go back inside, pretend he'd never come out in the first place—Poppy would be pissed, maybe pissed enough to finally realize he was an asshole, and just  _leave him alone_ , for God's sake, and she'd stop driving him crazy with her stupid smile and her stupid invitations and stupid optimism and her stupid  _stupid stupid_ —

"Branch!"

Her voice echoed across the empty lot. Her dainty pink ballet flats slapped loudly against the concrete as she closed the distance between them.

"You ready?" But she didn't give him a chance to answer before she'd latched onto his wrist—again, God, what was with this girl and dragging him everywhere instead of letting him walk like a normal person, and fucking Christ, why did she have to touch him  _so much_ , it made it kind of hard to remember step four, and his own fucking name—

"Where—?" Branch swallowed. It seemed to stick a minute before going down. It wasn't because Poppy was touching him. It wasn't because Poppy was touching him. It wasn't. "Uh, where—where are we going?"

"Oh! Right, okay, so," she shook her head until her bangs were out of her eyes—she wouldn't let him go long enough to even brush back her hair, probably scared he'd run off at first opportunity, "pretty sure I promised you lunch, and I dunno about you, but  _man_ , I'm _starving_. I dunno where you like to eat—where do you like to eat? These are things best friends should know about each other, I'm just saying. I'd  _kill_  for sushi right about now, but I don't think we have time to get to the seafood place and back—not the _good_  seafood place, anyway, no way we'll be back before next period—what's your next period again, I can't remember, mine's Calculus—"

"All right, all right!" Branch jerked his arm from Poppy's grip—good God, that woman was freakishly strong when she was on a mission—and stopped just shy of the passenger side of her car. "Number one—"  _—we aren't friends, we aren't friends, for the last goddamn time, we aren't friends, wasn't Friday night enough for you to get it—_ "—sushi is fucking gross. And I'm not going to associate with you if you eat that. Ever."

" _What?!"_  Poppy half-wheezed out the word. Her hands flew up to her chest, clamping tight over her heart like she thought any second now it was going to stop beating. "Excuse you, Branch! Sushi is, like, one of the best things this world has to offer! Rice! Eggs! Fish! All wrapped up in a little roll!"

"Food poisoning. Now comes in bite-size."

"You—!" Poppy dropped her hands from her chest, and jammed them on her hips instead. Her thin brows pinched together in a little line, low on her forehead and her tiny button nose wrinkled and her round freckled face scrunched up and her glossy pink lips twisted and  _fucking hell_ , it was really stupidly  _adorable_ , the way she tried to scowl at him and couldn't, and step four could really just go fuck itself right about now because  _god-fucking-damn it_ —

" _Fine_." She huffed out her surrender, and let her hands fall back to her sides and all the multicolored bangles on her thin wrists clinked and jingled with the motion and  _God, Branch, get it together for fuck's sake—_ she huffed again, and her bubblegum-pink bangs ruffled slightly in the blast of her breath. "No sushi, then. I  _guess_."

 _Fuck._  Right, sushi, right, and _there's an actual fucking conversation going on here, so stop fucking staring at her like some kind of socially-stunted freak—_

"You—" Branch crossed his arms and  _there,_  that was better, that felt better, or at least  _less horrible_ , "—yousaid it was too far out, anyway, and believe me, while I'm just  _dying_ to miss French II to watch you give yourself some strain of ciguatera—"

"Sushi is perfectly safe!"

"Have you ever even _glanced_  at the news?"

"Okay, wise guy!" Poppy jerked open the driver's-side door with an emphatic clang, and did that stupid adorable thing again where she tried to scowl at him—Jesus Christ, this girl was actually going to be the death of him one of these days— "So where do  _you_  want to go?"

Branch cocked a brow at her. "Back inside."

"Come  _on_ , Branch!" Poppy's hands found their way to her hips again. "Work with me here! Use your words!"

"Okay. Fine." Branch didn't uncross his arms, but he lifted a shoulder and let it drop a second later in a half-assed shrug. "Wherever will get this over with. There. Happy?" He shot her a snarky smile, and had to bite down, hard, on his bottom lip to suppress the real one tugging at the corner of his mouth at the  _almost_ -glare on her face— _fuck, no, you aren't supposed to be happy about this, happy isn't part of the plan, happy is not part of any plan when you're involved, you don’t get to be fucking happy after what you said to her on Friday night—_

Poppy's lips hitched up in another smile. There was the slightest edge to her expression now, an angle unexpectedly sharp, and Branch had the distinct feeling he wasn't about to like the next thing that came out of her mouth. "Okay!" She didn't give him time to say anything back—just chirped out the word, crawled into the car and disappeared from his view. "Come on!"

"Whoa, whoa,  _wait_." Even as the first wave of unease rippled through him, Branch obeyed her on instinct, yanking open the door on his side, and dropping into the white leather seat. "What kinda shit are you trying to pull?" He tucked his legs in and tugged the door shut behind him.

"You  _said_ ," Poppy stuffed the key in the ignition, and gave it a twist, "wherever gets this over with." She turned in her seat to shoot his own snarky smile right back at him. Times ten. "Right?"

"Oh, God," the words slipped out before he could stop them, "oh, God, you're taking me to a—a fucking—a fucking scrapbooking convention or something like that, aren't you—?"

"What? No!" Poppy giggled, bright and bubbly and fucking infuriating in how goddamn cute it was. She waved a dismissive hand at him. "No, no, nothing like that, my man. No worries. Scout's honor. Although," she added, eyes lighting up, "there _is_  the big annual arts and crafts festival coming up next week, the whole town's gonna be there, it's gonna be so much fun—"

"Poppy," Branch said, as flatly as he could manage, which he was proud to say was pretty fucking flatly at this point. "I would rather set myself on fire."

"—ooh, my  _gosh_ , and Harper and I are getting together this weekend to make the flyers, and everyone's coming over to help, Smidge and Guy and Cooper and Satin and Chenille and DJ and Biggie and Creek and it would be  _so great_  if you'd—"

"With gasoline."

Poppy wrinkled up her nose at him and fuck, there he went, failing step four again. What the fuck else was new? "You know," she shifted into drive, and eased the Lincoln out of the parking space, "it wouldn't kill you to give it a  _chance—_ "

"I said no."

"Life is about trying new things!"

" _No_ ," Branch rolled his eyes, "life is about  _not dying_."

"Would you—?" Poppy coasted out of the lot, and rolled slowly out onto the main road. "Would you, like—would you _implode_ , or something if you let yourself have fun? Ever?"

"Yes." Branch fought the twitch at the corner of his lip tooth and fucking nail. "Official diagnosis. From the specialist. I was five."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you," Poppy took a commendable stab at dignity, "that sarcasm isn't nice?"

"You walked into it."

Poppy didn't look at him, but she did her scowl-but-not-a-scowl face through the windshield. "If I  _did_  take you to a scrapbooking convention, you'd  _deserve_ it."

"No doubt." Branch slumped back in the seat—he almost pulled his knee up to his chest, but the white leather made him think twice about the dirt on the bottom of his sneakers. Poppy really should have thought twice before she let him in a car this nice. "Seriously, where the _fuck_  are we going?" He bounced his knee up and down a few times, to try and alleviate the stupid, jittery feeling starting in the pit of his stomach.

Poppy grinned, and he tried to tell himself his heart didn't pound a little harder at the sight.

"You'll see."

Branch bounced his knee a little higher at the response. "Can't you just tell me?" He knew he shouldn't let her win, shouldn't let her see she was getting to him, but look, he just  _didn't do_  unknowns. You couldn't plan around unknowns. You couldn't prepare for unknowns. Unknowns were objectively horrible. End of story.

"You don't like surprises, do you?"

"How'd you fucking guess?"

"Well," Poppy shifted in her seat, and gave the wheel a tiny swivel, "good news is, we're almost there."

"That's the good news?"

"Yep!" She nodded so vigorously, her ponytail bobbed a little. "And then when we get there, I'll tell you the great news, and the super-great news, and the super-duper great news, and the—" She melded easily into the next lane over, and slowed to a crawl, flicking on her turn signal in the temporary lull. "—super-duper-duper great news—"

"W-wait," Branch glanced out the window on her side—the gaudy, brightly-colored building loomed just beyond the glass, its neon-red lights an eye-watering beacon against the blue sky, "wait, Poppy, tell me we're not going there—?"

Poppy turned into the lot of Starfunkles Roller Rink and Arcade. "Surprise!"

Branch sucked in a breath. "Yeah, I'll wait in the car."

"Don't be like that," Poppy pulled into a space near the entrance, and shifted the car into park. "I'll get us a pizza. Extra cheese. Stuffed crust. Large. Pepperoni."

Branch didn't move. Poppy and pepperoni pizza were not temptation enough to make him brave the absolute headache that was the roller rink that had absolutely no right to exist past the seventies. "No. That's okay. Thanks."

"Come on." Poppy tapped him impatiently on the arm. When she pulled her hand away to unbuckle her seatbelt, his skin burned beneath his jacket sleeve where she'd touched him. "Let's get a move on. Mr. Bibbly will kill me if I miss Calculus again."

Branch snorted—the absurdity of the statement startled him out of his initial horror. "You've got Mr. Bibbly wrapped around your fucking  _finger_ , Poppy. Just like the rest of this town."

Poppy didn't argue the point. "If you don't start moving, I'm taking off your seatbelt myself."

"N-no." Branch jerked away on instinct, and undid the buckles—he told himself his fingers weren't shaking, and if they were, it  _wasn't_  because he couldn't stop thinking of Poppy's body pressed up against his— _okay, that's enough, thank you, brain, shut the fuck up now—_

He swallowed hard and clenched his hands into fists—maybe that would stop their stupid fucking trembling—he dragged in a breath, slid from his seat, and closed the door.

 _Safe to say_ —he stepped out of the car and walked around to join Poppy on the other side— _safe to say this shithole hasn't gotten any better since eighth grade._

And—who would have guessed it—he was right.

"Ooh!" Poppy bounced on her toes as they stepped through the door, and into the thickly-carpeted entryway. Dropped potato chips and dried out pizza crusts crunched under their feet. "Ooh, I _love_  this song!" She jabbed a finger at the clunky black speaker mounted to the wall above their head.  _"I got a fever comin' on! And now it's beatin' on my bones! I feel like—!"_

"Okay, that's enough." Branch scrubbed a hand down the side of his face—the headache had already started, pounding through his temples, as the colored strobe lights hit his eyes, and the greasy smell of terrible, reheated pizza hit his nose. God, this place was a motherfucking nightmare. The only saving grace right about now was that at least it was empty—nothing but dead-eyed employees as far as he could see, with kids in school and parents at work. "Let's just get this over with."

"Okay, excuse you, Branch, but you will show Justin Timberlake the respect he deserves."

"What? None?"

"Don't," Poppy held up a hand, and breezed past him toward the dining section, "don't even talk to me. I don't know you anymore."

Branch followed her. "Literally anyone can sing better than he can. Hell, I bet  _I_ could sing better than he can."

"Oh?" Poppy stopped, right in the middle of the aisle, and spun to face him. "Let's hear it!"

" _What?"_

"Sing it. Right now."

"I—" Branch's cheeks warmed. Goddamn it, why did she have to take everything so  _literally_? "I don't think so."

"Come to think of it, you know, I've never actually  _heard_  you sing?" Poppy frowned. "You never sing with the rest of us backstage."

"Yeah, uh—" Branch's tongue felt too heavy—clumsy and awkward in his dry mouth. "—uh, I don't sing."

" _Everyone_  sings," Poppy countered him instantly.

"Sorry, forgot you had statistics on literally every person on earth."

"Aww, come on!" Jesus, she really wasn't backing down on this one. "Go for it, my man. Let me hear your pipes!"

"I told you," Branch stepped past her, and carried on down the aisle, deliberately enunciating every word on the way, "I don't sing." He tucked himself into the nearest corner booth—quiet, out of the way, the closest thing he'd get to peace in this fucking hellscape of a place—and folded his arms back over his chest. Less horrible.

"Aw, come on, Branch! Live a little!" Poppy tossed herself into the seat across from him, sinking slightly into the thick, ugly red-and-white upholstery, and clasped her hands hopefully under her chin. "Strut your stuff!"

"Pass."

"What if I told you it doesn't _have_  to be Justin Timberlake?"

"No."

"One note," Poppy said, like this whole thing was some kind of bargain—Christ, the girl just could not take a fucking hint. "One note. And then—poof! You'll just want to keep singing and singing and never stop! One note will change your life."

 _Okay, we're fucking done with this. Now and forever._  "Poppy." Branch slouched a little deeper in his seat and jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. "I'm  _not_  fucking singing, okay? Now for God's sake, can we just get this over with already?"

* * *

"Told ya," Poppy said, around a mouthful of pizza—large, pepperoni, extra cheese, stuffed crust, just like she'd said—and then she'd actually gotten  _offended_  when he'd finally fumbled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and tried to hand the half-dead employee a small, crumpled wad of cash because  _"I'm treatin' my boy Branch! I want to treat my boy Branch! My boy Branch needs to let me live!"_

"Told ya I'd get ya the good stuff. Gotta learn to trust ya girl Poppy."

"The same Poppy who once swore on her life that the card she was about to give me didn't have any glitter inside," Branch mumbled, mind only half on the conversation as he took another bite of his own. Objectively speaking, the pizza was pretty terrible—like brittle, dehydrated cardboard with some tomato sauce smeared on top—but he kind of wasn't speaking objectively, because he was actually kind of speaking more as someone who hadn't eaten anything but the dry toast he'd forced down on Saturday night. So. Yeah. All things considered, the pizza was fucking heaven.

"Okay, that was like sixth grade, Branch!" Poppy tore a chunk of stringy cheese off the top of her slice with her teeth. "I've grown up since then!"

"It was last week."

"Same difference."

Branch huffed. "Okay, come on," he gulped down the bite in his mouth before he went on, "get to the point. Why'd you drag me here?" He scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, eager to get rid of the greasy residue clinging to his lips.

"Oh! Yeah! Okay, so!" Poppy pushed the last bite of the crust in her mouth. "Hang on! Just give me a hot sec here!" She sprayed crumbs everywhere when she spoke.

"Don't choke."

"Pfft." Poppy waved a dismissive hand, and swung her purse off her shoulder. She plopped the glittery eyesore down on the edge of the table, and flicked up the front clasp. " _Not_  gonna choke. Trust ya girl Poppy. We've been over this." She rummaged for several silent seconds through the depths of the sparkly bag—which must have been a hell of a lot bigger than it looked from the outside, because she pulled out three gluesticks, a pair of scissors, a tube of her signature strawberry lip gloss,  _an entire fucking scrapbook_ , and a second flower crown, with white felt daises pinned to the thin green band, before she finally hauled out—

—a violently purple party invitation.

Branch shut his eyes. "Poppy." He might have been speaking through his teeth. He didn't give enough of a shit to try and fix that. "You  _did not_  seriously drag me to this— _this goddamn fucking hippie acid-trip nightmare hell_  to invite me to  _another one_  of your  _stupid_ —!"

"No, no, no, oh my god, no!" Poppy dropped the card facedown on the tabletop, and waved her hands frantically back and forth at him, as though she was trying to talk down a charging bear. "No, no, no, that's not—that's totally not—I swear, Branch, I just—okay, hang on." She flicked open the card.

A tiny, dark red curtain popped up off the thick purple construction paper, followed by a row of miniature theater seats. When Poppy tugged a tab on the side, the curtain swept back to reveal a small stage, and a little figure, with Bridget's familiar rainbow weave piled high on her head and her pastel-pink dress falling to her knees, bowing elaborately.

Christ. Poppy had even rigged up a small spotlight, and a powder-blue banner to spell out  _congratulations_  in colorful block letters.

"It's, um," she coughed, "a little rough. Made it on the fly."

Branch would not let himself be impressed. At all. "All right," he leaned back in his seat, and raised an eyebrow. "What do I have to do with any of this?"

"Okay, so, it's gonna be a surprise." Poppy sat up a little straighter on the bench, and grabbed another slice of pizza. "Everybody's gonna be here tonight! The whole cast, the stage crew, it's gonna be super fun, we're gonna get some pizzas and probably go rollerskating and play some games, except we can't let Smidge near old-school Pac-Man 'cause she gets kinda scary, and ooh,  _then_  we're gonna—!"

Branch crossed his arms. "Is there a point to this?"

"Right, right, yeah," Poppy nodded, "sorry, sidetracked, happens to the best of us—anyway, I was kinda hopin'  _you_ —" she clicked a finger-gun at him across the table, "could get Bridget  _here_  for us?"

Right. Okay. There it was.

Branch raked a hand down his face, his short nails scraping painfully at the skin of his cheek, and let out a groan. "Poppy."  _Why_  the _fuck_  did she  _do this_  to _him_?

"Just! Just!" Poppy did the thing with her hands again, the trying-to-talk-down-a-charging-bear thing. "Just! Think about it?"

Branch sighed, and sank into the sticky cushioned back of the bench. " _Why_  are you asking  _me_?"

"Uh—well—" Poppy bit her lip. "You—you guys work together, right? At the Troll Tree? Not gonna raise too many eyebrows if you invite her out for a pizza after work, right?"

"Yes, it will," Branch snapped the words off his tongue like taut rubber bands. "I don't know what the fuck kind of impression you're getting, but Bridget and I are  _not_  friends. I invite her anywhere, and she'll probably try and have me hospitalized."

"What, you think so?" Poppy raised her eyebrows. "Bridget's said some real nice stuff about you, my man. I think she'd be down to hang out with you."

"Whoa, whoa,  _what_?" Branch's cheeks went hot. His voice crept up an octave, or twelve. "You've—you've talked about _me_  to  _Bridget_?" It was gonna take a few thousand years to wrap his mind around that one. The thought that he figured that heavily into Poppy's life,  _or_  Bridget's.

"Um. Yeah?" Poppy's mouth edged down into a confused frown. "I mean, we're not, like, writin' entire novels about you, or somethin', no need to look so freaked out. She just. She says she likes workin' with you."

"O-oh." Maybe _he_  should try and have  _Bridget_ hospitalized.  _She says she likes workin' with you,_ like he  _wasn't_  just the sarcastic asshole she had to put up with if she wanted to keep the admittedly tenuous grasp she had on her job. That was. No. That was—that was weird, that felt weird— _wrong_ — _bad_ —

"Uh-huh. Yeah." Poppy started stuffing the flower crown back in the fathomless depths of her purse. "So?" She bounced a little in her seat. "Will you do it?"

"I—" Branch shook his head.  _Stop thinking about it, just stop fucking thinking about it._  "Harper and Karma work at the Troll Tree, too. Bridget's  _their_ friend."  _Not mine._ "Ask one of them."

"Uh—" Poppy pulled a face. "Yeah. About that."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, no, don't tell me—"

"Harper'sondecoratingdutywithmeandKarma'sgirlfriendisvisitingandshewantstospendtimewithher," she rushed it all out in one long breath, like she thought that'd make it better.

" _Poppy!"_

"What? It's not _my_  fault!"

"Yes. It is. It  _really_  is." Branch rubbed at his throbbing temple, and silently cursed the stupid play and the stupid theater all to hell. " _Everything_  is your fault."

Poppy huffed, opened her purse back up, and snatched up her lip gloss tube. "Oh! Well! I'm  _so sorry_  to  _bother you_ , Branch—!"

" _When_ ," Branch held up a hand to shut her up, and pulled his phone from his jeans with the other, " _when_  do you want Bridget to show up?"

"You're—?" Poppy dropped her lip gloss tube back on the table so hard, the silver tray between them rattled. "You're gonna do it?"

"No." Branch swiped a finger across the dirty screen of his phone until the row of icons showed up, and jabbed for the clock. "I just thought I'd ask. You know. For fun. Sarcasm, Poppy," he added, at her crestfallen look. "Sarcasm."

"Ohmygoshthankyou!" Poppy jumped from her seat like she was on fire, hands shooting up to cup her own cheeks. "ThankyouthankyouthankyouBranch! You'realifesaver!"

The over-the-top enthusiasm rang more than a few alarm bells in the back of Branch's mind. "Don't get any ideas, Poppy. I'm dropping Bridget off, and I'm  _leaving_."

"Yeah, yeah, totally!" Poppy nodded energetically, pink ponytail bouncing behind her. "Gosh, thank you, Branch! Oooh, I could _hug_  you!"

Branch swallowed, and tried his damndest not to think about what he  _could do_  to Poppy. "Don't. Even think about it."

Poppy's glowing smile faltered for half a second, but the corners of her lips still twitched, and god-fucking-damn it, wasn't that adorable. "Hmph.  _Rude_." She picked the lip gloss up off the table, and shoved it back in her purse with the flower crown.

"Poppy?"

"Mm?"

"Time."

"What?"

"I need," he would swear to God a squirrel had a longer attention span than her, "I need the time. To bring Bridget here?" He pointed at the still-glowing screen of his phone.

"Oh!" Poppy forced the scrapbook back into the glitzy blue bag with a grunt of effort. "Right! Um, hmm, 'bout tonight-ish? Sorta?"

"The specificity here is incredible."

"Oh, you know what?" Poppy gathered up the gluesticks. "I'll just—I'll text you. When it's okay to bring her over, I'll text—wait, hang on, hang on," she got up off the bench, leaned over the pizza tray, and plucked the phone right out of his damn hand.

"Poppy!" Branch jerked up from his seat and practically vaulted across the table to make a grab for the stupid thing. The tray between them lurched sideways, and a stray slice of pizza fell facedown to the floor. He didn't care. "Poppy, what—what the  _actual fuck_  are you—?"

"Putting in my number." Poppy didn't even look up, her fingers flying over the keys, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet on her side of the table. "Come on, you can chill, Branch, I'm not doing—I—" she faltered, and looked up at him, "I don't actually know what you think I'm doing. But!" She resumed her furious typing. "I'm _literally_  just adding myself to your contacts."

"You can't—you can't just—just  _take_  my fucking—"

"Shhh." Poppy threw an arm out across the table, and put her first finger to his lips, and yeah, okay, no, Branch kind of couldn't even fucking breathe anymore, which was really fucking stupid, by the way, because it was just—it wasn't—it wasn't like that, it was _literally_  just her hand on his mouth, and okay, no, let's not fucking think about the specifics here, let's not think about the fact that she was fucking touching—

Poppy swiveled slightly on her heel and held the phone out at arms-length—there was the small, unmistakable click of the camera going off—

"Wh-what—?" Oh, he was. He was still standing there. With her finger on his lip. Okay. Great. God. Fucking perfect. He stepped back and he told himself his mouth wasn't tingling and it'd be a motherfucking miracle if he could string two words together. "What are you—?"

"Contact photo!" Poppy chirped, and tossed the phone back at him. "The little grey default icons? Those are so sad-looking. I will  _not_ be a grey default icon, Branch."

"I—" Branch fumbled with the phone—Jesus Christ, he dropped it on the table twice before he finally made his stupid shaking fingers fucking work. He glanced at the screen.

 _YA GIRL POPPY!_ with a smiley-face. And a rainbow emoji. And then a picture of her stupid goddamn face, grinning out at him from the frame, her bangs on the verge of falling in her sparkling eyes and all her teeth showing and holy fucking shit, okay, that was—

"Oh! Almost forgot! Here!"

Branch tore his eyes from the stupid fucking picture—he was going to delete  _that_  as soon as he had the chance—

"Poppy!"

He snatched up the bright pink monstrosity hurtling through the air toward him on instinct, and looked at the blank screen. He glanced back at her and raised his eyebrows.

"Just—just throw your number in there," Poppy plopped back down on the bench. "And then I'm outta your hair."

Branch huffed, but flicked to the home screen anyway—her friends' bright faces beamed exuberantly out at him from beneath the rows upon rows of pointless apps. He prodded at the contacts button, and whoakay, the girl had a hell of a lot of people in here, had to be at least half the town—why the fuck did she  _need_  all these  _fucking people_? No. Never mind. Just—just never mind.  _Focus, Branch._  He poked the plus icon in the corner, and punched in his number without looking at her. "There." He slid the phone back across the table at her.

Poppy scooped it up, and glanced at the screen. A frown pulled at her lips. "You—you didn't even add your name?"

"Mm." Branch clicked his phone off and jammed it back in his jeans pocket and didn't let himself look at the stupid goofy picture of Poppy longer than he had to. "How astute of you."

"Oh! Thank you!" Poppy lifted her head and beamed at him. "I think that's the first time you've ever—!"

"Poppy?"

"—said something—yeah?"

"Sarcasm."

He slid out from behind the table and got to his feet.

"Branch?"

"Yeah?"

" _Rude."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally nothing to say abt this except that I realized this entire fic is essentially just Branch being horny on main and I lost my goddamn shit. o o f why is this fic so difficult to write. it doesnt even have a coherent plot why is it so hard

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what the fuck this is anymore. I just thought "theater!kid Branch" & my entire life spiraled out of control from there. Title is based off a song by Cloud Cult of the same name.
> 
> PS for those who are unaware - though I'm sure most of you are - Cybil was a character who eventually got cut from the final draft of Trolls, and they replaced her with Creek.


End file.
